Playing with Fire
by paperbkryter
Summary: A nod to the master of horror and a look back at Sam and Dean as teenagers, just beginning to evolve into the men they would become, confronted with tragedies both large and small.


"Your house is burning!" - Stephen King, _The Dead Zone_

* * *

Sammy was five when he started kindergarten. He was right on, if not ahead, of schedule. A quiet but friendly child, he took to school like a duck to water. 

When Sam started kindergarten, Dean went to school for the first time too. He had been home schooled until Sammy was old enough. John had been reluctant to let either boy enter public school on their own.

The two boys were like night and day. Whereas Sam was studious and obedient, Dean was lazy and disruptive. Dean was behind his classmates by several years and he knew it. Keeping up with the others was a constant struggle that ultimately took its toll on him both academically and socially. He began making up for his lack of knowledge by acting out in class, gaining the respect from his peers that he might not have otherwise. No one would dare call Dean Winchester stupid. For one, he was really funny and cool, and secondly, he'd kick your ass.

They changed schools so often Dean had to reestablish his reputation every time they moved. Thus he had no time for studying and fell further and further behind, just barely squeaking by with the lowest proficiency test scores. If it hadn't been for a geeky little brother with a penchant for computer hacking, he might not have gotten as far as he did. Sam was adept at tweaking grades, and smart enough to make his changes believable. Dean never got an F - officially. He was a straight D student thanks to his brother. Sometimes, just to boost Dean's confidence, Sam would give him a C.

Only once did Dean put his nose to the grindstone. It was his senior year. He was barely passing. In order to go on the senior class trip to a local amusement park he would have to bring his grades up for the last quarter. Dean really wanted to go on the trip. He had never been to an amusement park in his life, it looked like a hell of a lot of fun, and there was a girl involved. She was on the verge of becoming his girlfriend and he wanted to impress her. To do this, however, he had to do school work.

Dean wasn't stupid, just unmotivated. For this girl, Amy, he _got_ motivated. He hit the books morning, noon, and night. If he got stuck on something, often well past midnight, he swallowed his pride and dragged Sam out of bed for help. His diligence paid off and he brought everything up by at least a grade point with no computer hacking necessary. His teachers were surprised.

They might not have been had they seen Dean work outside of the classroom. He was a mechanical genius, able to take apart and put back together just about anything from a radio to his father's car. By virtue of John's "profession" Dean knew how to read Latin (although Sam could translate better) and he possessed a great deal of knowledge regarding things that went bump in the night. Of course none of this helped him pass Algebra or twelfth grade English, but it proved he was capable of learning if he wanted.

Not long before the school trip, which was scheduled for the spring, the Winchester status quo was momentarily disrupted. Dean came down with the flu.

They were living in a shabby by-the-week rental apartment with only one bed. Because he was sick Dean had the bed to himself while Sam slept on an air mattress on the floor, and John crashed on the battered sofa - when he was home. The flu really got Dean down. He stopped caring about anything at all - the beautiful Amy, the amusement park trip, Sam, their father, everything. The only thing he was able to do was lie in bed, dosed up on cold medicine, trying to breathe and not throw up.

The apartment was an efficiency. It was basically one big room with a kitchen on one end and a bathroom in a corner. The bathroom was the only real "room" as it had a door. Whatever position the sofa was in delineated the bedroom and living room space, but for all intents and purposes the bedroom was in the living room. Dean had no privacy, but neither did his father and brother. He had dosed fitfully all morning. Sam had been sitting on the sofa eating chips, doing homework and watching television. John restlessly paced around the room, going out briefly, but never venturing far for very long. Even as sick as he was, Dean could feel the tension level rising. The silence grew heavier and heavier. Dean fell asleep.

He woke when the argument finally erupted.

John had a gig, a Hunt that would take him away for nearly a week. His desire was to go, take care of business as usual, but he was reluctant to do so because Dean was sick. Someone, he said, had to stay with Sam since his brother was incapacitated. He'd made the decision to pack the boys up and take them to Pastor Jim's. Jim had an extra bedroom in the priory. Dean could get well, and Sam would be safe.

Sam found all of this unacceptable. John should give up the job, stay and take care of Dean himself. Sam didn't want to be pulled out of school for a week as it would make him have to work harder to catch up and finals were right around the corner. Sam didn't think he needed to go to Pastor Jim's. He argued that if John wanted to go that badly he should just go and Sam would take care of both his brother and himself just fine right at home.

"I'm fourteen years old. I don't need a babysitter!"

After that a chronic source of dissension reared it's ugly head: the issue of John's vague explanations as to why he was always concerned about Sam's safety in the first place.

"Safe from _what_, Dad?"

Sam knew, of course, because Dean had told him and he had secretly read John's journal. He simply wanted to hear it from his father. John would reveal nothing, however, even under the onslaught of his youngest son's wrath. What Sam needed was reassurance that _he_ hadn't been the reason why Mary Winchester had died. Only John could give him that.

_Dad doesn't want to lie_, Dean thought as he listened through a Nyquil induced haze. _He doesn't know for sure. It __**could**__ have been coming for Sammy, we just don't know._

It was impossible to make Sam understand, and the kid remained torn. He didn't want to blame himself, but yet the nagging feeling it was somehow his fault would never go away as long as John remained evasive.

"Why aren't you so worried about Dean?" Sam demanded, realizing his father wasn't going to answer his other questions. "Who's gonna protect _him_? You don't even care that he's sick!"

Dean opened one eye, and peeked out from beneath the covers. Sam evidently thought he was asleep or he wouldn't have said such a thing.

"That's not true, Sam."

"Then how come you're leaving? You care more about other people than you do us!"

"Jim will take good care of you."

"Jim isn't our father, you are!" Sam yelled. "You are, but you'd never know it the way you act. We're not your toy soldiers, Dad. This ghost hunting crap is your fight, not ours!"

John's face flushed with anger. "This is just as much your battle as mine. Your mother..."

"Is DEAD!" Sam stood up and met John face to face. "The thing that killed her is GONE. But we're here, Dad. Right now! Dean's sick and all you can think to do is get away from us, to go HUNT because it makes YOU feel better!"

For a beat, John stared him down, jaw clenched tight. If ever there was a time Dean thought his father would slap the living shit out of his little brother, it was right then. Sam was standing his ground too. It would probably _take_ a slap in the face to get him to back down.

"You're suffocating me," Sam said fiercely. "Because you couldn't protect _Mom_!"

There was a long, uneasy silence. Dean held his breath.

"You don't know what you're saying," John said finally, his voice harsh and low.

Sam's voice was like ice, sharp and cold. "Maybe because you always keep me in the dark."

"For your own good." Abruptly, John turned away, snatching his coat from the back of the chair. "I'll be back."

Sam didn't ask where he was going or for how long he'd be gone. He simply stood there as John put his coat on, checked the gun he had tucked in his waistband, and stormed out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Dean tucked his head back under the covers as Sam, deflated, sat down hard on the sofa. He fell asleep again to the soft sounds of his brother crying. Sammy crying tore him up inside, and it was a fitful sleep. He dreamed weird stuff he couldn't recall later, but woke with a brief moment of panic believing his father was gone and would never be coming back.

It was dark then, and indeed, John had not come back. Sam was there though, peering anxiously over the back of the sofa.

"Are you okay?" he whispered. "You yelled."

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked hoarsely.

Sam didn't immediately answer. "Out," he said finally. "He'll be back."

It was meant to be reassuring, but wasn't. Sam sounded too much like he was worried.

"You shouldn'ta said all that stuff, Sammy."

Sheepish because he had been overheard, Sam lowered his eyes. "It's true though."

"No it's not."

Sam scowled. "Why do you always defend him?" he asked, obviously hurt Dean didn't take his side. "This isn't normal, Dean, the way we live and stuff."

Dean rubbed his eyes. They felt hot and gritty. "He does the best he can."

"Does he?" Sam muttered.

With a sigh, Dean rolled over, too sick to argue. After a minute he heard Sam get up and go into the kitchen. He came back with a bottle of cold medicine and some ginger ale.

"Here," he said, and stood by looking anxious as Dean gratefully accepted the offering. "You'll be better soon, and he can go do his thing. We'll be okay."

It _was_ okay, for a short while. Dean recovered after a few days rest. John remained home all that week, postponing his trip until the week after, just to make sure Dean was fully recovered. The atmosphere was chill, as he and Sam barely spoke a word to each other. For the first time in his life Dean felt relieved that his father would be leaving soon, and not just because of the tension between him and Sam. It almost seemed as if John's presence were sucking the life out of his brother; Sam lost his appetite, grew sullen, grouchy and tired.

Turned out it wasn't John at all.

"It's the flu," John said wearily, by the time Friday came. "Now Sammy's got it."

It got him good too. Sam succumbed very quickly and became horribly sick. They put him to bed, propped up on pillows so he could breathe, and fed him clear liquids to keep him hydrated when nothing else seemed to want to stay down. Sam's skin was burning hot to the touch, his hair wet with sweat, but he shivered beneath the pile of blankets tucked in around him and complained constantly of being cold. It bothered Dean to see him so thin and pale. He wasn't alone in that feeling either.

John tried not to let Dean see, but he was worried. He checked Sam's temperature frequently and took care to make sure he got dosed with medicine at precisely the right times. Sam was much sicker than Dean had been even when the illness had been at its worst. When Dean realized his father had not been sleeping he knew things were serious. He came home from school one day and caught John nodding off in a chair beside the bed.

Dean came up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Dad?"

Startled, John jerked his head up. "Dean," he murmured.

"Go get some rest," Dean tugged at his father's shirt sleeve. "Go on, I'll watch him."

John raised a hand to rub his face, nodding slightly. "I'm beat." He glanced down at Sam who slept restlessly, turning his head back and forth upon the damp pillows. "He'll need another dose in a half hour," he murmured. "The orange stuff."

"Orange stuff. Got it."

"Thanks, Dean." A heavy hand found it's way to Dean's shoulder as John rose unsteadily to his feet. "Wake me if anything changes."

"Dad." Dean drew his brows together in concern as he glanced down at his brother. Sam was shivering, and wheezing as he breathed. "Shouldn't we take him to a doctor?"

John nodded. "If the fever doesn't break by morning." He staggered the few feet it took to get from the bed to the sofa and collapsed into the worn cushions. His words were slurred and barely audible. "Gotta break by morning."

He was asleep almost immediately. Dean took the chair his father had vacated, picked up a comic book from the floor beside the bed, and using the mattress as a table, settled in to read.

In the course of several hours, John slept on while Dean tended to Sam. He could barely be roused to take his medicine. Dean got more _on_ him than _in_ him during more than one attempt. He made Sam drink water too, a lot of it. Not much came back out, a situation which really worried Dean. Sam's fever was burning him up inside, draining all the moisture out of his body. His eyes, when he managed to get them open, were dull and lifeless. During those brief moments of consciousness Dean tried to give him a pep talk.

"Come on, Sammy. It's just a flu bug, you can whip it."

John woke around midnight. He placed one large hand upon Sam's forehead and frowned deeply. "How long has it been since you gave him the last dose?"

"A half hour."

"The liquid and the tablets too?"

"Yessir."

"Dammit." John left the side of the bed and found his coat. "Dean, you keep a close eye on him. If anything changes, anything at all, call 911."

"What?" Dean looked frantically from his father to his brother and back again. "Where are you going?"

"To buy some ice."

"Ice? What for?"

"Get that fever down," John said quickly, and just as quickly, left the apartment.

"Oh, maaaan..." Worrying his lip with his teeth, Dean slumped down in his chair. "Sammy, come on!"

It was then, almost on cue, that Sam's eyes opened. One hand snaked out quickly from beneath the covers and grabbed Dean's arm with such strength Dean gasped out loud in surprise.

"Dean!" he gasped.

"What? Sammy! Ow."

Dean tried to pull away, but Sam held fast to his wrist. The expression his brother's face was alarming. His eyes were wide, his face flushed with fever and his hair soaked with sweat. His voice had been hardly more than a croak. Looking at him, Dean felt a small surge of fear.

"Sam?"

"You'll burn!" Sam stared into Dean's face, but his eyes seem focused elsewhere. "Black. Burnt black and screaming. Skin, flesh, eyes melting, plastic. "

"What?"

"GET OUT!"

"Sam..." Dean pried Sam's hand off his arm, only to be jerked back down. Sam had wrapped a hand around the pendant around Dean's neck. The cord bit into his skin, pinching painfully. "Jesus, Sam, let go!"

"Warped. It's all warped," Sam whispered hoarsely. "No air, no breath. Burning fish in a bowl." Tears started rolling down his face, his voice caught in a sob. " Dean. Dean."

Dean grabbed him by the shoulders. "Sam it's okay, lay down. Dad..."

"Dad can't stop it. Nobody can stop it. The wall! White wall." Sam moaned, his head jerking back and forth wildly. "It's death. Don't go. Don'tgodon'tgodon'tgo!"

"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy!"

Sam's voice suddenly rose to a high pitched shriek, his words ripping from his throat as he screamed, "IT'S ON FIRE!"

"Sam!"

Eyes rollinng back so only the whites were visible, mouth slack, body limp, Sam collapsed into his brother's arms. Seconds later John came bursting in the door with a bag of ice slung over each shoulder. "The tub," he ordered.

Dean scooped Sam up from the bed. At fourteen he was tall, but thin - thinner still from being sick - and Dean bore his weight easily. John dumped one bag of ice in the tub and helped to gently lower Sam's limp body in on top of it. They added the second bag of ice on and around him. It started melting immediately.

"Dad, he was talking about fire..."

"It's the fever, Dean. He's delirious. He has no idea what he's saying." John jerked his head toward the other room. "Bring me the thermometer. Where...there's a towel. Hand it to me."

"Here."

"Thermometer, and a change of clothes for Sammy."

Dean hurried to follow his father's orders. His hands were shaking as he rummaged through Sam's things for an clean pajamas, or just some sweats and a t-shirt. He found the latter and took them into the bathroom. The memory of Sam's wild-eyed look and his horrific words haunted him. Dean remembered the fire that had killed their mother. He had nightmares about it for a long time after her death, nightmares in which he had not been able to escape from the house. It was something he would never forget. Now here was Sam screaming about fire and death...

"Will he be okay?" Dean whispered nervously.

John's reply was non-committal. "We'll see."

They sat together at the side of the tub, monitoring Sam's fever. The ice melted slowly and water filled the bottom of the tub. John dipped a washrag into the water to use upon Sam's face. Sam moaned and muttered but did not repeat his delirious ranting. Gradually his fever began to subside. Carefully lifting him from the tub, John dried and dressed him in the clean clothes Dean had found. Dean changed the bed and they put Sam back into it.

By morning he was doing much better. By the day after that he was awake, alert and demanding waffles for breakfast. Dean told him he was delirious and shouting stuff about burning fish, which Sam thought was funny, not frightening. That made Dean feel better, and as the days passed he eventually forgot all about the incident. The crisis had been averted and things started getting back to normal.

John avoided the flu somehow. Later Dean would joke that their father must have had a charm against viruses because he never did seem to come down with anything, including the common cold. Dean was fully recovered and Sam was running at about 90 percent when the time came for the senior class trip to the amusement park. Not wanting to ruin his brother's fun, Sam had not put up a fuss when John told him he'd be staying with Pastor Jim while Dean was away. Because of the boys' illnesses John had let several cases slide by and was anxious to get back to work. Sam was willing to let him off the hook. After all, he _had_ stayed with them while they were sick.

On the morning of the trip Dean arrived at school early. His goal was to hook up with Amy and get a prime seat at the back of the bus as far away from the chaperons as possible. If he played his cards right they could make out on the way to the park, slip away from the rest of the group out the emergency exit doors once they arrived, and do their own thing. Cornering Amy in the hallway before they joined their classmates he outlined the plan. She showed her approval in a way that made every hour he'd spent working on his grades well worth while.

It was the alphabet that ruined everything. The chaperons, concerned about space, had assigned seats by alphabetical order. Last names beginning with the letters A through R were assigned seats on the bus. S through Z had to ride in the large van brought up to carry the overflow.

Amy's last name was Harris.

Dean's attempt to convince Mr. Black, the teacher in charge of seat assignments, that they'd gotten his name backward when he'd been enrolled, failed miserably.

"Honestly. My _first _name is Winchester."

Mr. Black rolled his eyes. "Dean..."

"It's the truth! They call me Win at home."

One of Dean's shop class cohorts leaned out the bus window. "Yeah. Win Dean, but we call him Wendy!"

Dean flipped his tormenter the bird and was promptly ushered to the van by Mr. Black. To add insult to injury, he had to ride shotgun.

Kids filed onto the bus and into the van as they arrived, the teachers taking a headcount as each one boarded and sat down in their assigned places. It was a good hour before they got on the road. Dean sat next to Mr. Black, who was driving the van, and in front of Mrs. Stanwick, one of the parent chaperons. Hemmed in by adults he had no opportunity to misbehave. He could only sit there quietly, plotting how he could spirit Amy away to some secluded corner for some petting without tipping off a chaperon.

As they drove onto the highway, Dean rolled down his window. It was turning into a rather warm day and despite fiddling with it for a good ten minutes, Mr. Black could not get the van's heater to switch off. Complaints arose from the kids in the back about it being hot and stuffy. Their windows were pop-outs and only opened a few inches. Up front in the shotgun seat Dean hung one arm out the window, singing softly under his breath and tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on the outside of the door.

A car passed them, weaving in and out of traffic. Mr. Black muttered a curse. He was a careful driver, sticking to the right hand lane. Dean peered out the windshield trying to get a look at the car, an older Camaro, restored, very impressive. The car had zipped in front of them, between the van and the bus. Now it made a quick dart out into the passing lane in order to get around the lumbering school bus. Dean saw immediately things were going to go south in a hurry. One mistake snowballed into a disaster.

The reckless driver cut off another car, causing that driver to slam on her brakes. The pick-up behind her slammed into her rear end, bringing both vehicles to an abrupt halt in the middle of the lane...

Right in front of a semi.

It happened so quickly Dean could barely recall the exact sequence of events. The next thing he heard was the squealing of tires and a whole lot of shouting. One of the girls behind him screamed. He turned his head to see the side of the semi-truck trailer coming sideways into the van – a massive wall of white metal. A quick glance to his right and he realized they were on an overpass. A concrete barrier topped by a chain length fence was the only thing between them and a thirty foot drop.

Mr. Black slammed on the brakes. The trailer slammed into the van with a deafening boom. A hideous screaming, screeching wail rose up from the side of the van as it scraped against the concrete wall. Dean felt the van shudder, saw sparks out the window. The truck driver let off a blast with his horn.

It was over in a heartbeat. The van jerked to a stop, pinned between the barrier and the semi truck trailer. Mr. Black sat in the driver's seat panting, his hands white-knuckle tight around the steering wheel. Blood trickled from a cut on on his arm. His side window had been shattered when the trailer hit the side of the van and glass had rained in on him in a deadly spray of schrapnel. Now, instead of a window of glass, the side of the trailer filled in his window. Out the windshield Dean could see the broadside of the semi-truck itself. It had jackknifed into their lane just in front of them, barely missing the back end of the bus they had been following before crashing nose first into the barrier. The driver had gotten out already. He was no where to be seen.

There were cracks all across the windshield, arcing madly from one side to the other. One wiper had popped out of place, standing upright like it was flipping someone the bird. Dean let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. Someone in the back of the van was crying.

"Just stay calm everyone," Mrs. Stanwick said, and nodded toward her son. "Tony, open the door back there please. We'll have to get out that way."

Dean heard it first. It was a soft "whoosh" like the sound of a gas stove coming to life. He felt it next, something warm swirling around his feet. When he saw the first hint of flame nose out from beneath the van's hood, his heart started pounding hard against his ribs.

He had been Hunting with John. He'd seen some pretty horrific things out there in the dark. Not much frightened him though, because he had been educated so well by his father. Dean knew how to get rid of those dark things, how to kill them, and that made them not so frightening. Sure, some things scared him. The thought that Sam had recently been sick enough that he might have died scared him for sure. Terror though, Dean had felt that only once before.

As a thread of smoke trickled up from under the van's dashboard, Dean found himself paralyzed with fear. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move. Sweat beaded up across his forehead. Had he looked in the mirror he would have seen the color draining from his cheeks.

Tony, at the very back of the van, grunted as he twisted at the door handles. "I can't get it open. It's gotten warped or something."

Dean heard Sam's voice in his head just as clear as a bell.

_Warped! It's all warped!_

_GET OUT!_

Mr. Black let out a cry just as Dean's paralysis broke, a cry that quickly became a hideous shriek. Fire had suddenly erupted around the man's feet. It surged up around him with a roar, consuming him alive. Mrs. Stanwick forgot her own advice and began screaming at the sight of the man writhed within the flames, trapped in place by his seatbelt. The van lurched as ten people instinctively fled toward the back, away from the fire.

Sam's voice was replaced by their father's.

_NOW DEAN, GO!_

The passenger's window was still open, but it was blocked by the chain length fence. Dean pushed frantically against it and found the fence had some give. Grunting, he pushed harder, bending the fence back away from the window. Flames licked his heels as he crammed his head and shoulders out the window and into the narrow gap he'd made between the fence and the van. Broken glass cut painfully into his palms, wire snagged and tore his shirt, his skin. It was almost as if the van itself were trying to prevent him from escaping and for one horrible moment he felt stuck. His legs were still inside. The skin on his left calf began to blister painfully. He could feel the heat through the bottoms of his sneakers as the rubber began to soften and melt.

Curling his fingers into the steel mesh of the fence, Dean jerked himself loose, clawing his way inch by inch, up and out of the disabled vehicle. He clung desperately to the fence, looking down at the roadway thirty feet below him as he edged away from the window. His lungs burned. He began coughing and his strength failed him. His grip on the fence loosened, and he fell onto his back upon the roof the the van. For several seconds he could only lay there gulping fresh air.

Which did not stay fresh for long.

Thick, black smoke rolled out from under the van on all sides. Dean could hear coughing and screaming below him, and the sounds of fists and feet banging against the inside walls of the van. Quickly he jumped down from the roof onto the pavement behind the vehicle. Fire burned madly in the front seats, emerging through the window Dean had crawled through only moments earlier. It licked the fence, burning away the blood he had left behind. Nobody else was going to get out that way.

The semi trailer blocked the windows on the driver's side of the van, even if they could be opened enough to let anyone through. On the passenger's side the impact with the fence had slammed shut some of the windows, left others open. It was enough to let air in to feed the fire, but not enough for a person to escape. Dean could see hands pushing and pulling at those windows, frantically trying to get them to open wider. One girl had her arm stuck out a narrow gap. Her fingers scrabbled along the fence like the legs of a pale spider, seeking something, anything, that would allow her to escape.

Dean grasped the handles of the back doors. They turned, but the van had been crushed just enough that they were wedged tightly shut. Dean turned away from them and searched for something he could use to break the windows, but found nothing. He tried the doors again, banged on the windows with his fists. Through the glass he could see the orange glow of the raging inferno inside. Shadows danced and writhed in the background as the fast moving flames consumed one poor soul after another. Screams of desperation became screams of agony. Faces pressed up against the windows, eyes wide, mouths agape, gasping for air.

_Burning fish in a bowl._

"No! No, no, no, no!"

Dean kicked the doors, threw his whole weight against the handles in his efforts to get them open. The metal was growing hotter beneath his hands, burning them, but he didn't care. His classmates, his friends, were being broiled alive right before his eyes. He could smell their hair burning away, their flesh as it sizzled in the flames. The hand reaching so pitifully out the side window had stopped moving. Fire began to consume it, blackening the pale, pink skin, making it blister and pop.

"Oh, God. Help me! Somebody help me!"

Suddenly there was someone else there, but they were not helping him free the doors, the were not trying to save those still trapped inside. It was he they were trying to save!

"Let me go! Open the doors! The doors! Please!"

A man's arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling at his body, urging him to come away from the van. He fought them, trying to make them understand there were people inside. They pried his fingers from the doorhandles and he was dragged away punching and kicking at those who were only trying to help. He was vaguely aware of firemen rushing past, couldn't comprehend that someone was talking to him, trying to calm him down, asking him his name. If he told him, he didn't remember. His vision had become nothing but a blur. Every voice he heard sounded like something out of a Peanuts cartoon.

The next thing he knew he was sitting on a hard plastic chair at the end of a long, white corridor. Thick bandages were wrapped around both hands. His leg still felt as if it were on fire despite the salve a nurse had applied. Other cuts, scrapes and bruises began to ache as he slowly began to recover from shock. It had taken him a while to realize he had been taken to a hospital in the first place, and he had no idea how much time had passed. He had been sitting alone there in the hallway, for God knew how long.

A sound caught his attention. It was the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Rather unsteadily he stood up and looked down the hall where a familiar figure had just come sprinting around the corner.

Dean didn't say a word, didn't protest at all, as Sam barreled into him and caught him up in an embrace that threatened to snap a rib or two. He just stood there and let it happen. At that moment, he needed to be held by someone, anyone. He closed his eyes and soaked in his brother's affection for as long as it was given. It wasn't long, but it was enough.

Sam pulled back. His eyes were red and his nose was running. He wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. "It was on the news," he said shakily. "And they said...they said nobody got out."

"Nobody did," Dean whispered.

"You did!"

Dean didn't bother to correct him.

"They called Dad's old phone. I had it," Sam continued breathlessly. "Jim brought me. Dad's on his way. Are you okay? You're okay right? Dean?"

"Yeah," he murmured. He sat back down on one of the plastic chairs. Sam took a seat beside him. "Thanks to you."

Sam's brows dipped into a frown. "Me? What did I do?"

"You warned me, when you were sick."

Startled, Sam drew away from him slightly. The look on his face was a mix of confusion and more than a little bit of fear. "That...it was just the fever, Dean. It's just a coincidence."

Dean shook his head. "You said _'it's all warped'_. It was the doors, Sammy. The doors got warped in the crash." His voice cracked. "I couldn't...I couldn't get them open."

He could sense Sam's unease, but was unsure of its source. It was rare that Dean showed any weakness, any vulnerability, especially in front of Sam. He couldn't help it now. Exhausted, traumatized, and struggling with feelings of guilt, Dean had no energy to spare for masks and subterfuge.

"It wasn't your fault," Sam said quietly.

Bowing his head, Dean nodded. "Yeah. I know." He gave his brother a sideways glance. "But it's true, Sam, I swear. Everything was just like you said."

Sam chewed his lip uneasily. "That's psychic stuff, Dean."

"I know."

"I'm not a freak."

"I didn't say that."

"It was just 'cause I was sick. That's all." He gave Dean a pleading look. "Don't tell Dad."

Dean promised he wouldn't, and when John arrived he didn't. He refused to talk about the accident ever again, making only one request of their father in reference to what had happened – he asked to be allowed to drop out of school.

It was a request made in an urgent, pleading, whisper. "Please don't make me go back."

John had studied him carefully for a long time before replying. "Whatever you want, Dean. It's your decision."

Dean made his decision. He never went back to that school, or any school again, dropping out just a few weeks shy of graduating. He knew John understood. It would be too hard to go back to school, to see the empty places where those who died would have been. Dean didn't want to look up and see the incriminating stares of his surviving classmates...

_Why did you live, when the others didn't? _

After a while they were all able to put the incident behind them. Sam pointed out that the mind is a funny thing and that if he had predicted the tragedy it was only because he'd been so sick. The fever had unlocked some weird bit inside his head that normally wasn't accessible. It had simply been a lucky coincidence.

It didn't occur to Dean until many years later that Sam hadn't been trying to convince _him_ that the fevered prophecy was just a coincidence.

He'd been trying to reassure _himself._


End file.
